Ashfool
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Once upon a time... Molly has grown up a stranger in her own house. She works as a servant and sleeps in the ashes of her hearth. But when a mysterious rogue- the infamous Butcher's Dog- starts paying her attention, she realises her life is about to change... Or at least she hopes it will. AU, revisionist fairy tale (Ashputtel/Cinderella), Sherlolly eventually.


_Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read and suggested by the awesome likingthistoomuch. Enjoy!_

* * *

 **~ ASHFOOL ~**

 _A Fairy Tale_

* * *

Once upon a time there was (and there was not) a little girl called Molly.

Molly was kind-hearted and gentle, quiet and sweet. She loved puzzles and pictures, mysteries and questions. Animals and people fascinated her, and her father- an amateur anatomist- would often show her his books and specimens, letting her sit in his lap and draw what she saw.

 _She could spend all day in his laboratory, a stick of charcoal in her hand._

On the days when her Papa wasn't about, she loved curling up in on the windowsill of her mother's library with a book, and reading. She would lie on her back and feel the sun on her skin and smell the scent of wood and wool from the windows and curtains, and she would be so content sometimes she fancied she would burst-

Molly's mother would often find her daughter asleep in this position, and she would wordlessly take her to bed. Tuck her in.

She always kissed her on her forehead to say goodnight, and her father always did so too.

The next morning Molly would awaken with her dolly beside her and the book she had been reading propped next to her bed. Sometimes she would still have charcoal or ink on her fingers from drawing things for her Papa, and always, always, she would be able to smell Mama's perfume on the air. She would lie there in her big, comfy bed with her big, warm blanket and she would smile at the thought of what adventures might await her today, content in the knowledge she was both safe and loved-

Life was good. Life was wonderful.

Until, of course, life changed.

* * *

Her mother's illness came suddenly, like the wicked East wind.

There were sleepless nights. Whispered conversations. Papa crying and trying not to let her see, pretending not to be sad when he clearly was. It scared Molly; Doctors flitted in and out of the house like sparrows- like crows- and nobody would tell her what was going on.

They wouldn't even let her see her Mama.

Within three months the poor woman had gone from her marriage bed to her coffin, leaving behind a daughter and a husband who were both completely unprepared for grieving.

The shock was something which- young as she was- Molly couldn't begin to understand.

For a year time seemed to stand still, the house and everyone in it frozen in shock. Unable to breathe, it seemed. Unable to comprehend what had happened. It was a hard time for Molly, and there was nobody to help her through it; In the aftermath of her mother's death, her father retreated into himself, and into his sorrow. There were no more trips to his laboratory, no more drawings or experiments for him and his Molly. There weren't even any afternoons spent reading, the sight of books being something which reminded him too strongly of his dead wife and, thus, her loss. _He locked his wife's prized library and forbade Molly to ever enter it again._ It had frightened Molly, this change; she genuinely felt that she was living with a stranger-

And then, as these things often do, the situation became more dire.

Because that was when She appeared.

Three years to the day after his wife's death, her father decided that he needed a woman in his house to raise his daughter, since he could no longer bear to do so himself. With this in mind he found himself a second wife. One mature and beautiful, but whom he was in no danger of falling in love with. (In his darkest, most drunken moments, he swore to his little daughter that he would never dare love again). The Viscountess Donlevy was clever, beautiful and witty. She had already married and buried two husbands, and she seemed content enough to make Molly's father her third. Though she herself was an aristocrat, she had no qualms about allying herself with a merchant like Molly's father, provided he was rich enough-

She also had no qualms about taking on Molly, since she already had two daughters of her own.

That neither of them seemed taken with Molly- nor, indeed, with anything besides their own reflections- was not apparently reason enough to demur.

And so, in that maddeningly sensible way the aristocracy had, Viscountess Smallwood married Molly's father and moved herself into his house.

She brought riches and clothes, jewels and silks, but she brought none of her own servants with her, and Molly would sometimes muse that that should have been a warning.

Loyalty, it turned out, was not a thing which the Viscountess seemed to inspire.

In the coming years, Molly would find out why.

* * *

The changes came so slowly, so incrementally, that it took a long time for Molly to realise what was happening.

By the time she became alarmed, it seemed all her routes of escape were blocked.

The Viscountess started small; Molly was to have a different bed-time than her own daughters, and she was not to be allowed entertain during company. (Given how much she hated having to serve tea and biscuits, Molly had felt relief rather than alarm at this new rule).

Then it was how she presented herself: Molly was not permitted to dress in the same sorts of clothes as her step-sisters. Being the youngest- and the child of a commoner- the Viscountess felt it in poor taste to dress Molly in silk and pearls and so she insisted the girl wore linen and cheese-cloth, clothes more suiting to a scullery maid than a young lady in her manor.

Though she didn't care for frippery or dresses, Molly protested this. She felt it unfair.

Her Papa didn't listen.

Still holed up in his lab with his experiments, Molly sometimes wondered whether he noticed the outer world at all.

He must not have, because other rules followed: Molly was not permitted to go with the Viscountess' daughters on outings to the was not permitted to go to house parties or entertainments at all. Then it became her studies: A life with an anatomist for a father and a bibliophile for a mother had given her both an excellent education and a canny inquisitiveness, something which the Viscountess felt was not to her advantage-

"No man wants a wife more clever than he, Henry," she told Molly's father one night, leaning back against their bed in one of her more revealing nightgowns. "If you care about the little poppet at all," she drawled, "you'll put a stop to her learning now..."

This, and this alone, her father hesitated about- It had been his first wife's dearest wish to see their daughter educated. But when he thought about it, his daughter was by now sixteen, and while still a bit away from matrimony, he had to agree that her future husband's rights must be considered.

It seemed only Christian that he do so.

And so Molly- already banned from reading her mother's books or even venturing into her beloved library- was forced to stop attending lessons completely. Her education was to consist of learning how to run a house- Something she would begin to pick up by working downstairs. _As a maid._ The money formerly given over to her books was to go towards buying coming-out gowns for her step-sisters, as well as embroidery and dancing lessons-

When Molly appealed to her Papa he told her she must do as her new mother bid her, and then he locked himself into his laboratory for three whole days, not coming out.

By the time he had, Molly had been withdrawn from school though she had cried and begged to be allowed stay.

Her stepsisters and theirs friends were gossiping about what a scene she'd made and they would, in the years to come, gain endless amusement from her heartbreak.

Molly had reacted to it all with a sort of dry-eyed hopelessness which felt like a stranger in her breast.

From there things went rapidly downhill; Molly was forbidden from eating with the family. She was forbidden from even coming upstairs. As time went on, the atmosphere in the house changed, became stuffy. Still. Wary.

With every passing year, the house seemed less like her mother's home to Molly.

By the time she was seventeen she'd been reduced to working in the kitchen and laundry. Sleeping in the ashes of the kitchen hearth, trying to find some warmth. Because of this she was always covered in a fine layer of ash and her stepsisters took to calling her Ashfool, because she was so stupid as to let herself be made filthy for warmth. The fact that her own bed was freezing never seemed to occur to them.

Molly told herself their words didn't matter, that she didn't care, and indeed that she _couldn't_ care, for it seemed there seemed nothing she could do about her situation-

That is, of course, until _he_ arrived.

* * *

In town, they called him the Butcher's Dog, that Molly did know.

Not the most gentle of names but it suited him well enough, she often thought it. A man with such a reputation for roughness and violence could expect nothing less- _Associates of the Butcher King, James Moriarty, certainly couldn't._

She'd watch him sidle up to the servants' entrance of her house, a mocking smile on his face, his slim, muscular body poised as if ready for a fight, and she would find herself fascinated. His long, elegant hands were always clenched together, a knife held in one, a billy-club in the other. Often he was bruised or bloodied, a scruffy beard covering his face; He had dark curls and startlingly blue-green eyes. Angular cheekbones and a surprisingly deep voice. His lips were… Molly pretended not to notice them, because every time she did she ended up feeling peculiar. Flushed.

She didn't like how they made her feel and she suspected he knew it.

He always claimed he was here to do business with the Viscountess, when he deigned to inform them of his presence. (Oftentimes, he simply broke in and then nodded to them as he left). Molly, despite her youth, never believed him and there was something in his eyes when she led him to the door which made her think he knew.

It was that maddening, condescending smile he always shot her.

But he never said anything of it, nor did his behaviour ever tip over into outright rudeness. Rather his eyes always seemed merry- taunting- as if laughing at a joke only he had heard. They followed Molly wherever she went, whenever he was in her presence; By now she was nineteen and becoming used to men being impertinent- she was, after all, naught but a maid in her own house- and so she didn't let it faze her.

She told herself she didn't even care what The Butcher's Dog thought of her. The shape of his lips and the timbre of his voice were nothing to her. They had no effect on her at all.

 _And yet…_

"It doesn't suit you," he told her one day, after she'd let him into the kitchen and had had to dispatch one of the more favoured servants up the the house to tell the Viscountess she had a visitor. He claimed he had purloined letters to sell, stolen from a rival of hers at court and worth a pretty penny.

Molly wasn't entirely certain she believed him and she felt her expression probably communicated this sentiment well.

"What doesn't suit me?" she's asked, affecting a drawling, bored tone which worked well on the boys in town.

In didn't work on him however.

Without a word of warning- or apology- he leant in close to her, his mouth at her ear. His breath was enough to make the skin of her throat tingle. "This enforced timidity," he breathed. "It doesn't suit you.

You're no more naturally quiet than I'm naturally humble."

And he reached out, took her wrist in his hand, his thumb resting on her pulse-point. The shock of it was almost enough to make her drop the ladle in her hand, something she was relieved she didn't do since she would have had to pay for its replacement.

Molly started, turning to look at him, and as she did she realised that he was really rather indecently close to her. Their faces were mere inches apart. The effect of this realisation was discombobulating; heat pooled in her but she shivered. Her heart beat faster and yet she was struck immobile; She felt as if she wanted to run and stay at the same time. Without her willing them to her eyes flicked down to his lips and to her surprised she realised his were doing likewise- She cocked her head and his own mirrored hers-

When the servant re-entered to bring him above stairs they both jumped apart as quickly as scalded cats.

The Butcher's Dog recovered first, letting out a light huff of laughter before turning to Molly and giving her a wink. A mocking bow.

She had to fight the urge to stick her tongue out at him- Or smack him with the ladle.

"Watch out, little one," he said wryly. "You're apt to scare a man, going on like that." His eyes roved over her person. "I'm practically shaking, and you not even bothered… Aren't you a fearless little thing?"

Before Molly could conjure an answer however he was gone, padding upstairs to do whatever it was he did with her stepmother.

She told herself it was best she didn't know about it.

Molly found she couldn't relax the entire time he was there though, and her pulse took an hour to finally slow down.

Her heart, it seemed, couldn't settle at all.

* * *

She had trouble sleeping that night, tossing and turning amongst the cinders.

When she did finally fall into rest she had dark, odd dreams. There was hair between her fingers, flesh against her breast. A voice talking to her, a voice she knew, though she couldn't really make out the words, muffled as they were against her throat. The dreams made her feel like falling- Or maybe it was flying and she just couldn't tell the difference? How would she know, never having left the ground before?

When she awoke the next morning, however, she could remember nothing of them.

She found herself oddly sad that she couldn't, and she'd no idea why.

After that day in the kitchen, his visits became more frequent.

What had started off as a thrice yearly affair gradually became monthly, then near-weekly.

The servants took to grinning at her whenever he turned up, something Molly found she liked not at all.

For she knew what they were implying: He always came during the day when Molly was most likely to let him in, and he always seemed mildly, wryly pleased to see her in the kitchen.

Molly, on the other hand, couldn't decide whether she dreaded or longed for his presence.

The fact that she couldn't decide seemed a torture, in and of itself.

For on the one hand, while he was often harsh or sharp with her, he never spoke down to her because of her station. In fact, he never spoke down to any of the servants, and he was often surprisingly sharp-tongued with the Viscountess and her daughters.

 _At least,_ Molly mused, _he was even-handed in his rudeness._

And sometimes when he came he brought things, little things, for the house he said, though he always gave the lion's share of them to Molly. There were honey-cakes. Sweetmeats. Sugared plums and figs. Once or twice- though she'd no proof he did it- she found books in her nook in the fireplace, books which she certainly couldn't afford to buy. The first time she thought it was her father and thanked him, but the rage he flew into left her without a doubt that it hadn't been his doing… And so she suspect the Butcher's Dog.

She could think of nobody else peculiar enough to make the effort.

Once she tried to thank him but it seemed to discomfit him. For the first time his easy confidence seemed to slip and he shook his head. Looked off to the side. "I'm glad you like them," he said-

And he turned on his heel and walked straight out the kitchen door, not even looking at Molly or saying goodbye.

He'd nearly tripped over the doorstep before catching himself.

He then promptly scaled the wall of the garden and let himself into the Viscountess' rooms upstairs through a window, eliciting shocked screams (and a hurled ladies' shoe) as he went.

It was the first and only time Molly saw him escorted from the building.

After that he didn't come back for nearly two months and Molly became afraid she'd frightened him away, that he'd never come back to her…

Which was why it was such a relief when she discovered him trying to break into her house.

* * *

It was the sound of smashed glass and masculine swearing which woke her.

 _In Molly's experience, it was a combination which never boded well._

Quiet as a mouse she stole out of the hearth and picked up the nearest heavy object- a candle-stick- whilst trying to remember which of the footmen might be the easiest to rouse at this hour. _(Greg,_ she thought. _He's the least likely to be drunk_ ). She crept towards the sound of the broken glass, determined to get a look at the blighters before summoning reinforcements.

To her surprise however, she saw The Butcher's Dog, and he was being held up by another man.

In her shock she let out a little gasp, and instantly they both turned to face her. In the pale light from his companion's oil lamp she recognised the man she knew, though he was covered in blood and bruises, and appeared to be much the worse for wear. The man who was with him- shorter, blond hair streaked with grey- he held his hands out in supplication. Lowered his voice.

"Sweet mother, Sherlock," he whispered angrily, "I thought you said this was a safe house?"

The Butcher's Dog- Sherlock, apparently- smiled tightly at her. Shook his head, his expression condescending. "It _is_ a safe house, John," he muttered. "Now do stop being melodramatic and have Molly there give you a hand with me."

And, huffing in a breath, he hauled himself over to the kitchen table, started removing layers of clothing. Woollen cloak, then leather jerkin, then gloves and finally several weapons were dumped onto the table beside him or onto the floor, the latter making an awful clatter.

With an imperious jerk of his chin he gestured to his boots- "What are you waiting for, woman?"- and Molly found herself scurrying forward, helping him remove them before easing him further onto the table.

To her surprise he smiled softly when she did so and thanked her, something which caused his friend to roll his eyes.

"This is her, isn't it?" John whispered as he pulled out a small knife and proceeded to cut his friend's linen shirt directly from his body. (Molly had to remind herself not to stare, though she found obeying this edict hard going. His chest was awfully… distracting).

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the question however. "Fine, yes, this is her," he snapped. "This is the girl who sleeps in the fireplace, are you happy now?" He threw a martyred look at Molly. "The things I put up with," he muttered, something which caused his friend to clip him sharply on the back of the head and scowl.

"Behave," he snapped, "Or I'll tell Mary about her, and you don't want that, do you?"

Whoever this Mary person was- _A lover? A sweetheart?_ \- the mention of her caused Sherlock to glare at his friend and then make a show of holding still. It also caused Molly to remember that this person had broken into her home and she still didn't rightly know what he wanted to do. As if reading her expression the Butcher's Dog grabbed her wrist, pulled her to him though the effort caused him to hiss in pain and his friend to glare at him again.

"We mean you no harm, Molly," he said softly. "You have my word on it. I just… I just need somewhere to have John fix me up and then we'll be on our way: is that alright?"

He looked at her from beneath his lashes, his expression almost blindingly sincere. Loyalty to home and fear for her safety warred with curiosity in Molly, but there was never any real contest: she always knew how such a battle would turn out.

She was, after all, her mother's daughter.

So she nodded to him once, curtly, and then asked him what he needed.

It had been a long time, she said, but she still remembered something of her father's lessons in anatomy.

"You," Sherlock said quietly before his friend could answer. "I need you." His eyes were burning when he looked at her; It made her stomach flip, and for a moment she fancied he was going to say more- But then his friend cleared his throat and the fire in his eyes died.

He dropped her hand.

With a look at John he resumed his place on the kitchen table and asked her to do as his friend bade her.

"Try to be quiet," John whispered, though Molly didn't need to be told.

She was up for three hours, running and fetching and boiling water. Then it was another hour, scrubbing the blood away, but she found she didn't mind the loss of sleep.

After all, he'd thanked her and kissed her on her cheek as he left.

And after all, now she knew his name- And she knew he'd spoken of her to his friend.

* * *

He didn't come back for weeks after that, and Molly found she missed him.

She turned her ear to the gossip on the streets, hoped to get some mention of him, but it seemed The Butcher's Dog had all but disappeared- After all, his master, The Butcher King, Moriarty, had finally been captured and brought before the Prince Regent.

He was to be hanged at the gallows at Tyburn before the month was out.

Though she knew such news should be good, Molly found herself worried about The But- About Sherlock. When she'd left he and his friend he had been recovering, but how could she knew what had happened to him after he left? He could be dead. He could be in prison. He could have been abandoned by John and have bled to death in the streets. Though she knew he was theoretically a villain she found the thought surprisingly sad, so sad she didn't want to dwell in it-

And besides, there were other things to catch her attention, namely that the Viscountess had found her a suitor. The sort of lowly suitor a creature like she could manage.

(This information was conveyed to her by kitchen gossip, not by her stepmother or indeed her own father.

This did not foster a sense of confidence.

Kitchen gossip was also the reason Molly knew this suitor's offer had been accepted, though she had no idea who he was and they'd never met at all.

This was likewise not the sort of thing which boded well.)

Nevertheless, Molly was wise enough to know that if her father had given permission then there was little she could do about things. While she may have now turned twenty-one, she was still her father's chattel, by right. She was his to dispose of as he saw fit. And she was also not entirely averse to leaving a house where she was expected to sleep in the ashes of her own hearth if she wanted a little warmth- That would be madness. _Becoming a wife with a home of her own might well be a step up for her._

But the fact that the Viscountess was pleased with this person made her uneasy; She did not trust the older woman to choose in her best interests.

The fact that her step-sisters kept looking at her and laughing did not, likewise, bode well.

So it was with a heavy heart that she was summoned from the kitchen one day and told to make herself not having a good dress or any jewellery she made an effort: She washed her hands and face and brushed her hair. Her ablutions thus ended she trudged up the stairs she hadn't been permitted to climb in years, her fingers tying themselves into knots before her as she contemplated what was to become of her.

Though she knew, theoretically, that marriage might well be her best option she found that it still frightened her though she didn't want to think about why.

When she entered the first door to her right- the servants' parlour- she looked up to see a well-dressed blond woman smiling at her. A stern, angular faced gentleman with an umbrella was standing to her right. To her left stood John, the man who'd brought Sherlock to her that night, and when he turned to face her his face broke into a smile. He walked forward and shook her hand cordially.

"This is she?" the man with the umbrella asked in a bored tone. "This is the little mouse my brother's sent me to catch?"

"This is she." These words were spoken by the Viscountess, and her tone was dripping with sarcasm. Her daughters were standing behind her, and as they often did in Molly's presence they gave into their usual, cruel little giggling fit.

They seemed sometimes to do nothing else.

"Our darling little Ashfool," the Viscountess was saying. "I assure you, if your brother has taken a shine to her then he's welcome to remove her from my hands." She threw Molly an unimpressed look. "May she bring The Butcher's Dog more luck than she's brought me- Or my dear husband."

And with that she rose to her feet. Handed the blond woman a folded letter, bound with the wax seal of Molly's father. They were, the young woman guessed, her wedding papers.

So much for this being a negotiation, Molly mused.

Without a backward glance she turned and walked out of the room, her daughter's at her heels. The eldest- Kitty- looked at Molly as she went and snickered to her sister. "Every dog must have his bone," she sneered and then she was gone in a flounce of lace and silk and ridiculously overpriced perfume.

Molly, on the other hand, could only stand and stare at John and the room's other occupants.

"He wants to marry me?" she asked dazedly.

 _There was no question of the He in that utterance_.

"If you'll have him," John said.

"If you won't," the blond woman added softly, "we'll arrange something, but I have a feeling that won't be necessary, will it, Molly?"

And she got to her feet. Smiled and extended her arms, bringing the younger woman into a welcoming hug. Despite herself, and everything she knew about The Butcher's Dog- and everything she _didn't_ know- Molly nevertheless found herself nodding. Smiling.

She had the oddest sensation… It felt like she was coming home.

An image of her mother's library popped into her mind and she pushed the thought away before tears had the chance to prick her eyes.

"That won't be necessary at all," she said to the blond woman. "I- Do I have to arrange a wedding dress? Or a dowry?"

The blond woman smiled again. Looked at John, then the man with the umbrella, who gave an exaggerated sigh. "You won't even have to arrange a wedding," she said kindly. "You just leave all that to me." She shrugged. "Well, me and the boys here- They're more useful than they look, I do assure you."

And that was how Molly learned that she was going to be spending the rest of her life with The Butcher's Dog- or Sherlock, as she liked to call him.

Despite what she knew of his life thus far, she found herself pleased by the thought.

* * *

He didn't visit, in the lead up to the ceremony.

He didn't send any notes, any letters- Not even any books.

Nevertheless, Molly could swear she felt his presence whenever she walked about the house late at night. Sometimes she thought she spotted him around the house. Sometimes she even dreamed of him.

These dreams made her blush to the roots of her hair and every single servants seemed to know why- Except her.

All they would do is mutter to her about wedding nights and that didn't help at all.

On the day the wedding was planned she awoke and went to the kitchen to find Sherlock's blond friend- Mary, she said her name was- waiting for her and speaking to the servants. She had brought Molly's wedding dress with her, and once she was ready she explained a carriage would pull up to the house. Take them both to the church Molly was to be married in.

Neither her stepmother nor her father would be attending, but Molly supposed she wasn't surprised.

Given the way her father's drinking was going, it was possible he didn't even remember he had a daughter from his first wife.

At exactly noon the carriage arrived; It was ostentatious in its luxury and gilt, and is livery was that of the King's Spymaster. Inside Molly saw the man with the umbrella. He gave her a sardonically chipper wave in greeting, as did the man beside him, whom Molly recognised him as John.

At this realisation, her heart gave a little leap.

With a determined, deep breath Molly raised her head and stepped towards the carriage; all of the servants, as well as her stepmother and stepsisters, were watching her like she was about to go into a bear pit. They were arrayed along the windows, the stairs. The front door. It was as if, for this one day, she really were a lucky young bride, leaving her home for her marriage bed. From the corner of her eye Molly watched her stepmother: That the splendidness of the carriage surprised the Viscountess was obvious, but she still didn't seem all that put out.

She had a gleam of triumph in her eyes; She looked like a woman who had won a very important battle.

This gleam lasted for as long as it took the other door of the carriage to open, and a tall, lean young man to get out.

It lasted as long as it took this man to walk slowly around to face Molly, to reach out and take her hands.

He was lithe and dark-haired, well dressed and elegant. His blue-green eyes were startlingly bright and his clean-shaven face made him look so much closer to Molly's own age that she found herself blinking in surprise.

With a wry smile and a sweeping bow he greeted Molly, his eyes laughing.

It took her a moment to accept that the man before her was really Sherlock.

"You're-" She was speechless, as was the whole house. The Viscountess in particular looked absolutely livid. "You shaved," she managed, after an awkward pause... _Because "my word I never knew you were this handsome," didn't seem a wise thing to say._

"You shaved," she repeated, "and you changed, and you're not dead or in prison, are you, Sherlock? Are you?" Suddenly it seemed important that she be certain he wouldn't be taken away from her. "You're not going to be hurt again, or go to Tyburn, are you, love?"

"Love?" He asked playfully. "I think I like that." And he shook his head, his expression mischievous. Joyful. Molly felt the loveliness of it go straight to her heart; it made it go pop.

"No, to any and all of the above," he said. "Now would you please get in the carriage, the Prince will not be pleased if he's kept waiting to watch the wedding service…" A wicked smile. "I am such a favourite of his, you know…"

And he tipped his hat jauntily to the Viscountess and her daughters. Before Molly could answer she was swept into the carriage and away.

Once inside Sherlock leaned forward and kissed her so tenderly she was actually quite surprised. (His brother merely looked disgruntled at the sight). Still a little shocked she took his hand and smiled at him, nonplussed by this (entirely delightful) turn of events, hoping nothing would happen to ruin it.

She's been at misfortune's mercy for so long she found she didn't entirely trust this lucky reversal…

* * *

Molly's last image of her childhood home would be the look of rage and mortification as her stepmother realised she had just arranged a marriage for her stepchild which her own children would never hope to better.

Molly, being Molly, didn't care about that however. She would have been just as happy to have married The Butcher's Dog-

It was the man who had her heart, not his name.


End file.
